Like sheep to the fold, fingers
Having been there so many times before
Find their own way, whether  
Or not the shepherd’s attention lingers

Hay rake, lathe or keyboard, they
Manifest completion of daily tasks
As easily as sheep find the grass, while
The shepherd’s eye, heedless, strays

Floating far aloft in dreams, gazing
Distant at possibilities lost among the rocks
As if he would rescue them, though
They are only safely grazing

Abandoning the land of dreams, feeling
Keenly the loss of the sweet imagined
Only to find his flock wildly straying
Among the rocks and with wolves playing

-- Tom Rubenoff